


Remembrance

by is_this_thing_anon



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Afterlife, Amnesia, M/M, Resurrection - One character rescues the other from the underworld/afterlife
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:41:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23970217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/is_this_thing_anon/pseuds/is_this_thing_anon
Relationships: Achilles/Patroclus (Song of Achilles)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 71
Collections: Id Pro Quo 2020





	Remembrance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [partypaprika](https://archiveofourown.org/users/partypaprika/gifts).



She gives him his own name and one other, and nothing else. 

_Achilles_ , she repeats. _You will find him. You will bring him back to me, and in return I will grant you the peace for which you have bargained so desperately._

“I will,” he says. 

_You will._

He cannot tell if it is meant as a threat or a command, but the names she has given him are the only things he knows in that moment and he will abide by them. 

Without them, he has no other purpose. 

There, carved into stone above the yellowed grass are the names, one carved above the other, both of them hastily done. The water that soaks the ground the earth around him is cool and sweet; it has nothing of the bite of salt that rolls off of her skin and hair.

The second name is his own, although he does not recognize it. The sound of it sits strangely in his thoughts, a pattern of syllables that hold no meaning, except that upon seeing them carved into the stone he can feel the unseen tethers holding him fast to the earth loosen, then fall away.

 _Patroclus_ , he thinks. _My name is Patroclus_.

The woman stands above him, her lips set in a thin line. Not happy or unhappy, but determined. 

She does not like him, he realizes with a start. He does not remember what he might have done to earn her displeasure. 

In any case, it hardly matters now.

He feels himself sink down into the earth, falling away from the world of the living. He will find the soul of Achilles and bring him back to the strange woman who stands by his grave, and then he will have earned his peace.

*

Patroclus has no preconceived notions of what to expect from where is sent, only that he is there by Thetis’ will and her will alone. He does know that Elysium was not meant for the likes of him; she has made that much clear. He is merely one more dead soldier among a field full of such ashes.

He does not think to question why his ashes are mingled with those of Achilles, nor why their names have been carved onto the same marker, but it is not lost on him that Achilles’ name holds the place of honor. His own is an afterthought, added far below the other and carved by a different hand.

It matters not. 

The marker is set on the skin of the world above, and his spirit is here, blinking in the warm light of Elysium. 

Waves crash against the glaring white sand of the beach, and the grass is soft under his bare feet. Patroclus breathes deep, soaking in the fresh scent of the yellow-gold flowers that brush against his ankles as he walks to the shore.

*

_I cannot go beneath the earth_. Those had been her words, her ink-black eyes boring down into the earth as if they could burn through the layers of grass and dirt and clay to the realms beneath.

 _But you can_ , she amended.

“I cannot!” He nearly wails the words, breathless though he is.

 _Not yet, perhaps_ , she says. _Not without a hand to carve your name into the stone. If I do this for you, you will do something for me._

“Anything,” he says.

He remembers none of this.

*

He knows not how long he spends wandering the gentle hills and slopes of this strange and beautiful land. There are others here; lying in the grass plucking at instruments, reading with their backs propped up against the gnarled roots of an olive tree, dancing along the shore with soft pale sand kicking up under their heels. 

All of them seem to know of Achilles. They speak of his skill and bravery, of his terrifying accuracy with a spear, the way his sword cut through Trojan armies like a knife through water. 

They speak of his mother, the sea-nymph Thetis, and Patroclus comes to understand that she must be the one with whom he has struck his bargain. A goddess mother, bargaining with a mortal for the soul of her only son.

All seem to know something of Achilles, but none of them have seen him, or seem to have any idea as to where he might be.

Patroclus continues in his wandering. Even here, he finds himself afraid of her - as if her flint-dark eyes were following him still, deep beneath the earth. He had given his solemn word that he would return her son to her. He does not know how she might reach him in this place, but even the lesser gods have their ways.

He wonders if his own mother is somewhere here, searching for him with the same terrifying conviction. She could be. 

If she is, he will not remember her.

The souls he passes now are old and young, male and female, and strangers all. 

_You asked for this,_ she had told him. _Begged for it._

He can only wonder now what sort of life he must have lived to have begged for oblivion. For others to have burned his body and spread his ashes but none left to perform that vital and final rite, to carve his name into the stone. It cannot have been a good one, not to bargain away so lightly his memories. Of one thing he is certain; he does not belong in this place.

The one he searches for though - he both does and does not. 

Patroclus has heard many tales, can remember the carvings on his headstone; great deeds of war and mercy both. Achilles is a hero among his people, and Elysium is the land of dead heroes.

But it is not a place for dead gods, for gods do not die.

Perhaps Thetis is wrong, and Achilles is not here at all. Perhaps he has already ascended Olympus to take his seat among them, far beyond the grasp of dead souls and lesser gods. 

Patroclus walks across the rolling hills, and fields of grain, and plains that stretch so far into the horizon they seem to never end. He legs do not tire, and he does not sleep, for he finds himself beyond the call of such things now. Only his soul is left to grow weary now.

The strength of the phantom sun fades. Not completely, but enough that it no longer warms his skin as it once did. The bright flowers become fewer and dimmer in color as he walks, on and on. They very earth itself seems to pull at him, calling for him to turn around; go back the way he came. 

But Achilles is not back there, and the only way on is forward. And so he walks.

The souls he passes are the same - dimmer in some way, less engaged in their pursuits, but unlike the flowers they become more plentiful.

The land becomes a wash of dusty browns and grays, and he cannot be sure if it is some effect of his own delirium or if he has actually managed to lose his way so completely that Elysium is no longer Elysium around him.

All here know of Achilles as well. They speak differently of him, here. Not as a legend - or rather, not only as a legend, but also as a man of flesh and blood.

A servant from Phthia tells tales of a golden-haired boy stealing figs from her kitchens. A young soldier from Scyros tells tale of a handsome dancer, the wife of Chironides and husband of Deidameia both.

“Have you heard him at his lyre?” one woman asks. “I heard him playing once. I’d like to hear it again, someday.” Her expression is wistful. She speaks as if she may hear the sound or not, but has no bearing on the matter herself.

“When did you hear him? How many days past?” he asks, desperate now for any sign of hope.

She looks at him blankly, shrugging. He supposes he should have expected as much. Time has little meaning here, after all.

Others are the same. They speak of the sound of his lyre, carrying on the breeze; or of some distant acquaintance that has seen him juggling small stones for fun; or racing across the open fields, faster than any human eye could track, pushing himself ever faster.

And not one of them knows where he is. 

Patroclus imagines he can hear the lyre, the delicate strum of it in the night air. 

Idle playing, the sort a talented but distracted child might do on a lazy summer afternoon. He has no idea where or how the thought comes to him, only that it does, fully formed - not as an image but as a feeling. An indelible sense of place and time.

He follows the sound of it, half convinced he must be mad - that it is not a sound at all, but the dreaming of a mind left too long at task with no clear destination and little remaining hope of success.

Onward, he walks.

*

The more he listens, the more the mournful tune of the music becomes clear. It is nonetheless beautiful, but painful to hear. Patroclus wonders what the _Aristos Achaion_ could possibly have to mourn. 

With the warmth of Elysium fading ever farther at his back, Patroclus finds now that his feet ache with the constant walking, his limbs grown clumsy from lack of rest, his eyes barely open. 

It is of little concern to him. He does not need to see to follow the sound of the lyre.

It is why he does not see the danger coming, when a man grabs at his shoulders, claw-like fingers digging bruises into the meat of his arms. He is mad; red-faced and spitting as he yells.

“You! Vile, unworthy thing! This was your doing!”

“My - my what?” Patroclus stutters out, taken off-guard by the accusation. He cannot hear the music anymore.

The man looks to be a sailor, or rather: was. He reeks now of sea water and decay as he claws at Patroclus’ face.

“I would be alive but for you!” he yells.

“I do not know you!”

“You don’t. But _she_ knows you, and seeks to send a message and I as her messenger. You tarry too long. You will uphold your bargain, or tens of hundreds more will follow as I have. Splintered ships will crash like waves against her wrath.”

The man’s eyes are bulging with fear and hatred. Patroclus is rendered speechless. He has long wondered what the Thetis might do, should he fail; she herself had admitted that the land of the dead was beyond her reach. 

Now he has his answer. 

Beyond her reach, possibly. But not beyond her influence, for she still held sway over the lives of mortal men on the sea above. 

The man’s expression crumbles, the rage burnt out of him and giving way to wracking sobs.

Patroclus stands solid, unmoving, unsure what possible comfort he might offer to the man: his life cut short for nothing more than a message, the both of them pawns to the whims and wills of the gods.

Her message is clear; complete your task, or be held responsible for every life cut asunder. 

He leaves the man to his misery, stumbling onward.

The sound of the lyre plays louder in his mind, spurring on his every step. 

He must find Achilles, convince him to take up his rightful place among the gods. He is not sure why he has been entrusted with this task, nor why a man such as Achilles would need to be convinced to take up his place as a god, but that is of no matter. This was his bargain and his task, and he has been given no other option.

The ground is less forgiving here, not soft with grass and rich dark earth, but dry and half barren, littered with stones and dead branches.

He does not know when he stumbles, nor feel the impact when he falls. The ground welcomes him with as much grace and kindness as Patroclus himself had shown to the drowned sailor.

*

“Look at how he will be remembered now,” Patroclus had said to her. “Killing Hector, killing Troilus. For things he did cruelly in his grief.”

“You are the one that ruined him,” he said.

He does not know where the courage comes from. He has never been good with words, nor especially known for his ability to sway others to his cause.

“Let the stories of him be something more,” he had pled.

 _What more?_ she asked.

And Patroclus had given her his memories; every last one of them, poured out over the earth and lost to him forever. It would be worth it to him, for Achilles not to be remembered only for his skill at taking life. 

He realizes too late his mistake; the true cost of the bargain he has made. That his own ashes are intermingled with Achilles, that the waters of the Lethe will pour over them both. 

*

Patroclus awakes to the sound of a lyre playing, clearer and more beautiful than he has heard in days upon days. 

Clearer than he can ever remember.

“You’ve been asleep a long time,” the man says, grinning. His hair is shining like honey in the sun, his teeth flashing white against the tanned skin of his face.

“Achilles?” Patroclus croaks, although it is hardly meant as a question. Patroclus has seen hundreds upon thousands of souls in this place, not one of them resembled a man born to be a god so much as the one stretched out before him now.

“Were you expecting someone else?” he asks, with a quirk of his brow.

The man sets the lyre aside, and in a single swift move he has bent forward to seal their lips together in a kiss. 

Patroclus does not move, too stunned to do anything at all.

After a moment, Achilles stops. He pulls away, frowning. “Are you not happy to see me?”

“I - ” Patroclus is at a loss for what to say. This is certainly not the welcome he had expected. He was but a mere messenger. “I am glad to see you,” he says, belatedly.

“No,” Achilles says, “you’re not. What is wrong?”

Patroclus can only answer with a question of his own. “You remember me?”

“Of course I remember you.”

“The Lethe - ”

“I have not crossed it.”

“You have not, but it has crossed you. Thetis poured the water over our ashes.”

Achilles’ eyes widen in understanding. “You remember nothing?”

Patroclus shakes his head. He does not understand how Achilles does, but that is immaterial now. 

“Your mother wishes you to return to the earth, to take up your rightful place among the gods. She had sent me to find you in Elysium, but you were not there. I have been searching for you for I know not how long.”

“And she sent you to deliver this message, thinking we both had no memory of our lives?”

“Yes.” Obviously, Patroclus thinks.

“I had already moved on when your bargain was struck. The Lethe never had opportunity to touch my soul, but I suppose an immortal wouldn’t know as such. Even so, she should have known better.”

Patroclus does not have a response to that. Perhaps she should know better, but that hardly seems like something he would be in any position to judge. 

“Why would I leave, with you here with me now?” Achilles asks.

“If you do not, she will only send more messengers. She has already sent one to spur me onward. One who was not already dead.”

Achilles’ expression hardens. “Of course she would use such threats against you, she knows your heart.” But then he pauses, searching Patroclus’ face for some explanation. “Why are you not angry?”

“I am.”

“No, you’re not,” he repeats. “I know you, almost better than you know yourself. You are not glad to see me the way I am to see you, and you do not rage against my mother’s threats the way I know you would. Why?”

Patrcolus hesitates, shamed by the admission he must make although he cannot understand why. “You would indeed know me better than I know myself, for I do not know myself at all. Not any longer. The waters of Lethe took those memories from me, such as they might have been.”

Achilles reaches up, stroking a hand down the side of Patroclus’ face, pausing under his jaw. Patroclus can hardly breathe for the tenderness of the gesture.

“You truly do not remember?” Achilles asks.

Patroclus swallows. He would shake his head, but he is loathe to dislodge that compassionate hand. “I do not.”

“Then I shall have to remember for us both.”

“Have I done anything worth remembering?”

“Everything you have done is worth remembering,” Achilles answers without pause, his hand tightening on the side of Patroclus’ face. 

Something inside of Patroclus bends, then breaks; a rush of too many thoughts colliding all at once, each clamoring for attention over the other. He has heard so many tales of Achilles - of his deeds, his accomplishments, his faults, his strengths. 

He has heard nothing of his own, and has not expected to, not since waking drenched in the cool waters of the Lethe.

Achilles tells him of a small, solemn boy arriving in his father’s house. A quiet boy, at first, who would skip his lessons to hide in dusty storerooms among jars of olive oil. A boy who began to speak, slowly at first and then seeming unstoppable about it. _And this, and this, and this_ , Achilles parrots, grinning at him. So many moments of happiness.

Patroclus can hardly fathom the words. From the moment he had awoken to this new consciousness, he has known that his life was unnotable. No great deeds had been carved on the headstone, nor even any minor ones. Not even his name had been left by those who buried his ashes in the earth.

Not one to be remembered by anyone. 

And yet here was Achilles himself, _Aristos Achaion_ , telling him the full story of his life.

“You followed me,” Achilles says, when he tells of his training on Mount Pelion. “You always followed me. I always knew that I could look back and find you there, just behind. First to Chiron, then Scyros, and on to Troy.”

Achilles stops. 

“You went on without me, then. All my life I had been so assured of your presence at my back, but you went on without me, outside the walls of Troy. And I did not know how to follow you.”

“Paris,” Patroclus offers, piecing together the stories he’s heard from others. “You were taken by an arrow shot from Paris’ bow, guided by Apollo himself.”

“Yes.”

“You should have lived. You were the son of the goddess, you were never meant to die. Your mother - ”

“My mother has no say in this.”

“She will send others.”

“She may. But we will send our own message back to her.”

“So you will leave this place?”

“I will. But not to take my place as a god, regardless of my mother’s wishes. We will make our way to Elysium, to the Isle of the Blessed where souls may choose to return to the earth above.”

“You should already be there,” Patroclus says, frowning. “It is where Thetis sent me to find you.”

“I suspect Apollo held sway in that as well. He would not want to risk my returning to the world.”

“So you cannot go to Elysium?”

“I can. Apollo may be a god, but he does not rule the underworld any more than my mother.”

“Then why have you not already gone?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” 

Perhaps Patroclus should know, or would if he had his memories. But the tales Achilles has told of their lives together are still bright and new, not settled as fact in his own mind. Not yet. He shakes his head.

“I was waiting for you to catch up.”  
  



End file.
